


Saturday

by 86guiltyPleasures



Category: Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: F/M, Mentions Of Infidelity, Pure Speculation, RPF, Season 8 filming, because they’re adorable, dont like don’t read, lets face it if you’re here for this it’s because you stan, mentions of alcohol and drug use, mentions of mental health issues, no one forces you to come to this tag do they, why did i do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24470197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/86guiltyPleasures/pseuds/86guiltyPleasures
Summary: All she wants is a peaceful day off until her best mate hijacks her plans
Relationships: Emilia Clarke/Kit Harington
Comments: 23
Kudos: 62





	Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> New here. May never post again. But they’re so cute I couldn’t help it. Unashamed.  
> Takes place midway thru season 8 filming and the aftermath of filming the worst scene in the history of television. I’m not combing the internet for accuracy about when this or that was filmed in the shooting schedule because the less I know about that debacle of a production, the better.

It was the first Saturday she’d had off in the four months since filming began, but despite the relatively “long” two day weekend, she decided against a jaunt back to London or Oxfordshire. All she wanted was peace and quiet, which was a rarity over the past few years. She shouldn’t complain; not many people were fortunate enough to live their dreams, and she did consider herself very lucky.

Still, dreams come with a cost, a reality that hit her especially hard over the past two years or better. Grueling schedules, invasions of privacy, being pulled in a dozen different directions every waking moment, and maintaining a certain image; for as many doors as her career opened for her, and as many people as it allowed her to meet, it could be quite a suffocating life sometimes. And lonely. Especially lately.

They were nearing the halfway point of filming the final series, and it was like being trapped in an artistic purgatory. The writing was banal, but demanded more from her than she’d ever had to give. And she knew in her heart that once they called cut on her final scene, she’d walk away and never see or speak to most of these people again. She always prided herself in how diligently she curated and cultivated and maintained her friendships. On every project, she added at least one pal for life. That was especially true of _Thrones._ She’d been with this group of mixed nuts for the better part of a decade. But there were only five or six of them she really believed would be in her life ten years from now, and only one she’d actually considered part of her inner circle. These days though, she even questioned that.

For the last two weeks, they’d been hard at work on the pivotal scene of the series; the one in which her beloved Mother of Dragons would be murdered by the person she trusted most. It was a terribly written scene for starters; not even two pages of nonsensical, disconnected dialogue, rife with misogynistic undertones to which everyone but her seemed oblivious. In fact, to the guys, it was great! “Beautiful.” “Poetic.” “Tragic.” All words they’d used to describe it, like they’d outdone Shakespeare himself and changed the face of drama. All words that glossed over the visual that would endure of another woman dying at the hands of a man.

It boiled her blood. 

Behind the camera were Dan and Dave, barking their directions but also spending a lot of time goofing off and making inappropriate jokes, failing to read the room as usual. Then there was Kit. She typically felt safe and cared for working with him. Even with the dynamic between their characters this series, she was at ease. Iceland had been amazing, and almost helped her forget her heartburn over the storyline, and the lingering issues between them. But then they returned to Belfast for this three week slog, and the gravity of the scene and her feelings toward it started to bleed into her real life in the middle of the first week. By the time they’d called it a day yesterday, she could barely look at him, let alone speak to him. 

It wasn’t his fault. He was just performing what was on the page to the best of his ability. Still, it felt personal. Like a betrayal. It left her too physically and emotionally spent to go out as she normally would on a free day. Besides, midwinter in Belfast hardly inspired being outdoors, and she was in no mood to fend off fans who wanted a selfie or an autograph, or to pretend for them that they were in for something incredible in the final series if they asked about it. So, the plan was to treat herself to a home spa day, complete with a long soak in the oversized bath, a facial, and a deep conditioning treatment Candice had recommended to soothe her badly damaged hair (she didn’t know what she’d been thinking, bleaching it). After that, she’d have a big bowl of the chicken stew that was slow cooking in her oven, a few glasses of good wine, and an even better book that had nothing to do with a production company or research for a role. As a bonus, Ben was at the studio and wouldn’t be home until late, so their rented flat was all hers. 

But even though this day of respite was sorely needed, she couldn’t help but feel blue. She knew it wasn’t just about The Scene. It was the feeling that Kit had abandoned her in the process of it. He’d shut down and detached, maybe to get in Jon’s head, or maybe for self care, but where she usually felt supported, she now felt forsaken and lost, for more reasons than she wanted to admit. And there was still another week to go.

As she turned on the hot water and poured her mix of lavender and chamomile essential oils into the tub, she mulled over how much had changed in the past two years. Over the summer he’d gotten engaged, and, Emilia being Emilia, put on a cheerful face and tried to be happy for him even though she was secretly gutted. She’d always carried a torch for him, and they had their share of close encounters over the years. It just never seemed to click at the right time, until they actually started filming together. Then it clicked in every way it could, and she was dumb enough to think it might lead somewhere, but shortly after series seven wrapped, he went right back to _her._ Within a few weeks of the finale airing in August, he made his choice clear for the whole world to see.

She didn’t get it. She’d observed that relationship from the front row for years, and couldn’t imagine a pair more ill-suited to each other. They’d break up and reconcile like clockwork; they’d talk shit about each other to her, as if she wanted to hear it. Emilia couldn’t count the number of nights out with him that she had to grit her teeth through fake smiles while he got off with another random local; partly because he was a cheater, partly because she wasn’t the one in his bed, and mostly because of the nagging feeling that if it was her in Rose’s place, he’d do the same to her. That she’d never be enough. 

His future wife didn’t seem to mind the infidelity as much as she minded literally everything else about him. She got hers, too, as Emilia could attest. Their sweet public romance was really a trash fire of self-destructive habits and toxic behaviour. It made no sense. Together they were two of the most miserable people she knew, and they chose to remain that way.

She thought when they had their _thing_ the year before that Kit seemed happier and more at peace than she could ever remember. For once he only enjoyed his vices in social situations, and when they went out, it was her he took home. She’d been as broken as he was at the time, mourning her father, and when she couldn’t find solace anywhere else, she found it in him. He’d been great. They had fun, they could spend hours and hours in conversations mundane or deep, and the sex…..

Maybe it was the forbidden nature of it, or maybe it was because she could finally admit to herself how crazy in love with him she was, but the sex had been otherworldly. How intensely he looked in her eyes. How it seemed that every part of her was also part of him. How, afterward, he didn’t just climb off her and dress and take the walk of shame like he did with the others, but he’d stay and hold her, stroke her hair, kiss her neck, rub her back, and whisper sweet words. He told her he loved her. But part of her understood that this was just an escape; a sojourn from their lives in London, their established relationships, her grief and his anxiety. It must have been the same for him. Whether it was fear or pragmatism or stubbornness, they had every conversation but the one they needed to have: _What are we doing? Where is this going? Can we be together?_

Obviously in the end, the answer was no. In less than half a year he’d be marrying the exact wrong person for him.

It wasn’t that she disliked Rose. Rose was fine, on her own. A complete toff, and hardly her favourite person, but Emilia was the sort who could get on with almost anyone, and for the sake of her friendship with Kit she tried her best to accept the woman in his life and remain upbeat. It was just that they were so bad together. She could only assume that they both got off on the drama. Of course they did. They were actors. Actors crave drama. She could say the same about herself sometimes. Maybe that’s what kept her from letting go of him. Maybe that’s what put her in his bed to begin with. Maybe she enjoyed the torture of wanting someone she couldn’t have. Her taste in men was legendarily terrible. So of course the perfect person for her _would_ have to be with someone else. Why would it be otherwise?

She soaked in the tub for a long time as some mellow R&B played from the speakers in the other room, embracing her like an old friend, soothing her soul. She tried to remember some of the techniques Nathalie told her about how to clear her mind and center herself. Thank God for a colleague and friend who was also a yogi. As she took the deep, cleansing breaths, in through her nose, out her mouth, she barely noticed that the water was getting cold. Her fingers and toes were puckered like prunes, but she didn’t want to move until she had to, and as she let the water drain from the tub, she did feel more relaxed, until the cool air of the loo clashed with her wet skin. She dried herself with a fluffy, oversized towel and threw on a red silk kimono robe, then stood at the sink and scrubbed away the exfoliating mask, leaving her cheeks shiny and pink. She toed into her slippers and blew out the candles arranged all over the counter and shelves and floor, then headed for the great room, and she was pleasantly surprised that some sunlight was peeking through the gloom outside and the soft rays spread across the hardwood floor. 

She approached the glass wall that overlooked the green space below (not that it was anything but dead and brown right now) to gaze at the outside world. As cold and dreary as Belfast was, she’d miss it terribly when it was time to go for good.

The aroma of the chicken stew wafted from the oven, and it made her stomach growl. What she wouldn’t give for a thick slice of freshly baked bread, but she’d sworn off gluten as a New Year’s resolution, and she honestly did feel better without it. She squinted her eyes and tried to read the timer from across the room, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses. So she ducked into her bedroom, grabbed her Chanel reading specs and the copy of _Little Fires Everywhere_ she couldn’t wait to devour, and headed for the kitchen. 

No sooner than she pulled the turquoise Le Creuset from the oven, her peace was disturbed by the ringing of the door chime. When she checked the security camera, her heart stopped.

What was he doing there?

His curls were hidden under a flat cap but she knew that coat and scarf from anywhere, even in black and white. He was carrying a small parcel and checking his phone, and she debated if she should answer the door. It wasn’t unusual for them to hang out in each other’s flats or hotel rooms, but it wasn’t like him to drop in unannounced. She checked the speaker where her phone was docked, and sure enough, in that familiar blue bubble, was a text.

_I have something for you. Mind if I drop by?_

Her pulse was racing as she opened the door. His eyes widened at the sight of her, reminding her that she was wearing only a thin robe, and she pulled the neckline tighter.

“Hi.”

That goddamn lopsided grin always unraveled her. He knew it, too.

“Hello,” she replied.

“I’m not interrupting anything am I?” He wondered. “You don’t have company?”

She realized that he was referring to her state of dress. If only. That would have stung him, and lately she’d been in a mood to do just that. He could not stand seeing her with someone. 

She thought of the Golden Globes last month, when they, along with Lola, hit some of the after parties, then a club. She’d danced and drank and flirted, and he just stewed at their table. She actually hadn’t noticed it, but Lo made sure to point it out. And then she felt guilty, and tried to smooth things over, because she actually didn’t care about dancing with James Franco or Jake Gyllenhaal, and she hated having tension with anyone. Especially him. So she followed him outside when he went for a smoke, and he tried to kiss her. It took all her wherewithal to resist. At first she made a quip about him forgetting why everyone had worn black that night, and that he absolutely did not have her permission to kiss her.

_“But you want me to,”_ he whispered in her ear, more a statement than an accusation. _“That’s why you were grinding all over those bastards, because you knew I’d be jealous.”_

_“You’re engaged,”_ she reminded him, as she did regularly. 

She remembered how close his face was to hers, how the January air bristled over her exposed skin, and how his breath on her neck smelt strongly of tobacco and whiskey but still made her mouth water for the familiar taste of _him._

She had to excuse herself after that, and she grabbed Lola and practically ran to her waiting car, leaving him behind, restless, hard, and confused.

_He was just drunk,_ she’d repeated to herself so many times since then, like a mantra. _He’s like that when he’s drunk._

The next day an enormous bouquet of pink lilies had arrived at her Venice Beach home, with a handwritten card that simply said:

He was always sorry. He’d been especially sorry the first time she saw him after his engagement was announced. And he made it up to her by spending the day with his tongue between her legs.

_“We can’t keep doing this,”_ she told him between one orgasm and the next.

He didn’t agree. But, the little display after the Globes notwithstanding, he’d respected her boundaries for the most part, and she’d behaved herself since then. Well, except for the last day of the table read. That had been a tough day, and he was so shaken, they roamed the city until evening, and drank too much gin, and she went to his hotel room with him.

_“I won’t be your mistress,”_ she warned as she tugged his shirt over his head.

_“I know,”_ he replied as he pushed her skirt up her thighs.

For a minute she forgot the door was still open, and didn’t notice the cold air, but he shivered as the breeze kicked up, and she moved aside and motioned for him to come in. He closed the door behind him and removed his cap, running his fingers through his curls.

It was then she noticed how rough he looked, like he’d had a long night. She really didn’t want to think about his activities that caused the slight bloat, the dark circles and ruddy complexion, and the bloodshot eyes. Fuck, he was a mess. Had been since filming got underway. He looked like he’d aged ten years in just a few months, and it made her heartsick. But even in his dishevelment he was the most attractive man she knew.

“I brought a peace offering.” He handed the pink bakery box to her. 

“Are we at war?”

“Feels that way, a bit. A cold war.”

She peered through the clear plastic box top. “Cupcakes?”

“Gluten free dairy free double chocolate,” he said with mock disgust. He enjoyed giving her hell about her dietary choices, and even remarked recently that she was going to waste away if she wasn’t careful. She had lost a few pounds. It had nothing to do with milk or bread though. Hard to find the will to eat with her stomach in knots most of the time.

He twisted his wool cap in his hands. His brown eyes roved over her figure. She really needed to get something decent on, even though he’d seen and worshipped everything under that robe plenty of times. But something stopped her. Probably spite. A need to remind him what he was missing. So when she noticed her collar falling open, she didn’t immediately move to adjust it. Her nipples were pebbled against the silk thanks to the cool air, but his presence and the way he was looking at her, fucking her with those eyes, didn’t help matters.

Suddenly it felt hot.

And a melancholic piano played through the speakers, with woeful words overlaying the notes:

_‘Heaving heart is full of pain_

_Oh, oh, the aching_

_'Cause, I'm kissing you oh…’_

She shivered. If she didn’t nip this in the bud, he’d have her bent over the kitchen counter before long, because she recognized the look in his eyes and the feeling in the pit of her stomach all too well. She excused herself, face flushed and heart pumping in her ears, and cut off the music

“Why’d you do that? I liked it.” He entered the kitchen area, running his fingertips over the pristine quartz countertop. 

Emilia just shrugged and mumbled some vague excuse, which he seemed to accept.

“Ooh, what’s cooking? Smells phenomenal.” His nose twitched as he inhaled, and it made her smile. Leave it to Kit to be a bit extra.

“Chicken stew….would you like some?”

He drew closer to her. “I didn’t come here to eat your food Em.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sit.”

She stood on her toes to grab a bowl from the shelf, hoping her ass cheeks weren’t on display, then dumped two heaping ladles of stew into the bowl before excusing herself to dress. In her bedroom, she sat on the edge of her bed for several minutes, taking a few deep breaths before pulling on a pair of black leggings and an oversized brown turtleneck jumper. She didn’t even bother with a bra. This was not meant to be that sort of day.

  
  


The stew was delicious. She had to give herself credit. She was getting much better in the kitchen. Maybe one of these days she’d have someone to cook for besides herself, or her friends every now and then.

They chatted idly, avoiding any shop talk, other than him mentioning that the film he shot with Xavier Dolan should finally be released later in the year. Emilia was looking forward to that. If Dolan was good enough for Adele, he was good enough for her. Then she thought sadly how she and Kit only had a couple more scenes to film together, and she may never experience working with him again. She hoped they could one day. Maybe theatre, or a fluffy rom com. Besides being quite nice to look at, he was exceptionally talented, and brought out the best in her as a performer. And there was a part of her who did fear that once this was over, and he tied the knot, their friendship would fade. She wasn’t ready for that, but what could she do?

He scraped his spoon around his empty bowl, mopping up a final bite. The sound of stainless steel raking over the ceramic raised the hair on her neck.

“That was incredible,” he said earnestly, “like a bowlful of...love.”

“Thank you,” she replied as her face crumpled and tears sprang to her eyes. “It was my dad’s recipe. He’d have loved to hear you say that.”

Kit placed a hand over hers and squeezed, looking apologetic for upsetting her, but it wasn’t his fault. She missed her dad every day, and though he’d been gone more than a year and a half, the loss was still fresh. It was part of what brought them together in Spain, because there were many days she felt she couldn’t go on, and she’d have terrible migraines and panic attacks, and it risked revealing the broken girl behind the relentlessly cheerful exterior. He saw it, though, and in many ways it was like he glued her back together, one piece at a time, day after day. Until her last day on this earth she would love him for that.

_“I like that bloke, Billy Goat,”_ her dad told her once, referring to Kit.

_I do too, Dad._

Kit stood and gathered their empty dishes and carried them to the sink, running some water over them for a few seconds.

“Well, thanks for the stew,” he said as he dried his hands with the dish towel. “I guess I’ll let you get on with your day.”

His mouth said that, but is face begged to be invited to stay.

Emilia leaned against the kitchen island. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“I thought I’d head to a pub to watch the Man U match.”

Of course, football.

“You….we could watch here, if you want.” _I don’t want you to go,_ is what she was really trying to say, and the relief was evident on his face. She really didn’t care about Man U football, but all desire to have a day alone left her the minute he rang her bell. This was what days off were meant to be. Kit and her, relaxing, enjoying each other. All the days off, ever, were meant to be this.

“I’d love to.”

  
  


She forgot that the telly in the great room hadn’t worked in weeks. It had sound but no picture, and since her idea of entertaining guests didn’t usually involve television, she was fine with the one in her bedroom, though it was rarely used. It was alternately awkward and exciting, having him in her room, propped against the headboard of her bed as he fiddled with the remote and found the right channel. Quite naturally, she found herself tucked under his arm, her head resting on his muscled chest. The fibers of his jumper tickled her face, but she wasn’t going to move. He rested his hand on her lower back, under her jumper, a gesture intimate and possessive. He didn’t try anything funny. He just kept his hand still, and it was like fire against her flesh, but she’d kill him if he dared move it.

Fuck, she loved him. It was never going to go away. She splayed her hand across his abdomen, and tried to be interested in the pre-match analysis, but could only concentrate on the rise and fall of his chest and lament that they would have so few days like this remaining, because she very much doubted that Rose would appreciate her crawling into bed with him for cuddles after they married. Most likely she wouldn’t appreciate it now. She’d probably tolerate it less than if he were currently naked in some strange woman’s bed with his cock in her mouth. But right now Emilia didn’t really care what Rose might think. She spent entirely too much of her time on that already.

Her eyelids grew heavy as she lay against him. She hazily perceived the beginning strains of _God Save the Queen,_ then the feeling of warm and soft lips on the crown of her head, then there was oblivion. When she woke, the room was illuminated only by the telly, and her body was pleasantly molded with Kit’s, who was fast asleep but still had his arm around her. She strained her eyes to focus on her clock, astounded that it was nearly five. She reckoned that she should wake him and get up, but she couldn’t. Instead she just watched him sleep like a man who could sleep for the next three days. She tightened her arms around him, and in his slumber he pulled her closer. His lips curved into a slight smile as he did, and she wanted to kiss him, like Sleeping Beauty waking her Prince. 

She settled for a kiss on his shoulder.

“I fucking love you, you fucking prat,” she whispered. 

She rested her head against his chest again, and closed her eyes.

And she did not see the grin spread across his face, or his lips as they formed the silent reply.

_I love you, too._


End file.
